CHAPTER SEVEN

TELLING THE STORY

Since story-telling, like music, is an art, it is no more possible for every mother, teacher, or librarian to become a Scheherazade than it is possible for every child who takes music lessons to blossom into a Mozart or a Mendelssohn. The inspiration, the creative fire that beguiles the wrath of a sultan or gives birth to a symphony, emanates from within, from the fairy germs planted somewhere in the soul and nurtured into fruition through unceasing effort. Yet it is possible for every worker with children, provided he be willing to devote some time and labor to the study of technique, to learn to tell stories convincingly and entertainingly, although not with the artistry of the professional.

First of all, whenever possible, he should choose stories that appeal to him, those he will enjoy giving his listeners because they fit his own moods, for he cannot hope to tell every variety of tale with consummate excellence any more than an actor can be supreme in all types of rôles. The genius of Sothern displays itself to best advantage in the tragedies of Shakespeare, while that of Henry Miller, Forbes-Robertson, or David Warfield is suited to dramas of another kind. Each of these artists tried various rôles until he found his forte. Then he kept to the field in which he could excel, concentrating all his effort upon it. So it should be with the story-teller. He should experiment with every kind of narrative, then make a specialty of the one in which he can be at his best, and use it to accomplish his most far-reaching results. Of course the mother or teacher cannot confine herself to one variety of story. Her interests being varied and many, she cannot hope to reach the height of specialization attained by the artist who has but one purpose, one aim, and never swerves from it. She must endeavor to acquire a fair degree of proficiency in the rendition of every type of story, that she may not be found wanting by her youthful auditors; but she should specialize with the kind of tale that is nearest an expression of her own moods, because in this way she can obtain the most gratifying results.

Perhaps she is particularly skilled in presenting humorous material. Then let her use that ability as a magnet to draw her hearers to the story period and to hold them through it to the end. A good plan is to begin the program with a merry tale to put the group into a happy, receptive mood, follow it with a serious one containing the message or information the children should receive, and then give another humorous one. The serious narrative may be difficult for her to handle, and may not be given with the skill and charm that mark her rendition of another type of _conte_, but the children, understanding that one of her delightful “funny” stories is to follow, will listen through the less desired number and unconsciously receive its lesson, because of their eagerness to hear the succeeding one. Thus, by knowing her field of excellence and making the most of it, she can carry children into other fields because of their delight in meeting her in the one in which she is most at home.

After the story is selected, the atmosphere and setting should be studied. The teller should have a clear idea of the topography of the country in which the events occur, of the customs of the people who move through it, of their homes, their modes of life, and their manner of dress, because the more into the spirit of the tale he can put himself, the more effectively will he give it. If it be a narrative of Scotland in the days of Bruce, he should try to hear the bagpipes, see the lochs and glens of the Highlands, and walk side by side with the heroes of that time. This means gleaning many fields for materials and giving something of an artist’s labor to preparation, in which, of course, he will be limited by the time at his disposal. But according to the preparation will be the result, and to believe previous thought and study unnecessary because one has natural facility for story-telling is to be gravely mistaken. Artists of the stage discovered long ago that no matter how gifted they may be, nothing can take the place of preparation. Adrienne Lecouvreur demonstrated the truth of this statement several centuries ago when she revolutionized acting, and theatrical folk are still demonstrating it, for in just this respect lies the difference between the third- and fourth-rate player and the great dramatic star. The leading man or woman who is satisfied to learn lines and do nothing more, does not get beyond stock. But one ambitious to climb to the top rung of the histrionic ladder will travel every bypath that may possibly yield him a fuller and richer comprehension of the part he has to play. Geraldine Farrar read everything obtainable about Japan and Japanese life before attempting to create the rôle of “Madame Butterfly,” and Maude Adams spent months studying the life of the Maid of Orleans, following every step of her career from the hills of Domrémy to the pyre at Rouen, before being satisfied to present “Jeanne d’Arc” at the Harvard Stadium. So it must be with the story-teller. Only the professional can devote weeks, or even days, to the preparation of one program, but every one who attempts to tell stories must know more than the plot of the tale and must have felt its events in all their possibilities, if his hearers in their turn are to feel them.

The amount of preparation necessary varies with the individual. Those possessing natural facility and those who heard much story-telling in childhood need less than those whom Nature has not gifted, or who were not so fortunate in early environment. But every one needs some preparation, and there is much slovenly, valueless story-telling because this fact is not generally recognized. Many teachers do not regard story-telling seriously enough, and devote far less thought to it than to other branches of their work, because the idea is prevalent that any one can spin a yarn or two. Consequently they accomplish little through the medium of the story. But there is another group of workers who believe that story-telling means as much today as it meant centuries ago, and its members are sending children into the libraries. As nearly as time and the conditions of their work will permit them, they are following in the footsteps of the medieval narrator. Like him, they are giving an artist’s labor to their work because they realize that great results come only through great effort. But the number of these story-tellers, compared with the workers with children, is very small, and consequently results are not yet gratifying. They can become gratifying only when child leaders cease to think that the story period is the one period of the day for which no preparation need be made, and realize that every minute devoted to previous thought and study will make the language come more spontaneously and fluently and will bring before the eyes of the listeners pictures that are clear because they first have been clear before the eyes of the teller.

Every scene in a story should be visualized until it is as vivid as a painting on a canvas. It must be studied and imagined until it shifts smoothly and rapidly into the succeeding one. Then there will be no danger of the teller having to pause and think what comes next, or of having to interpolate something that should have been introduced at an earlier stage of the tale. This is not equally easy for every one. Those who are imaginative by nature will find it no task, while for others it will be difficult at first. But no one need be discouraged. Each succeeding attempt will bring clearer pictures and smoother shifting of scenes, and gratifying results will follow labor and perseverance. It is a good plan for the beginner to jot down in outline form the successive events of the story and study them until he can carry the sequence in his mind.

When the pictures are clear and the order of events is fixed, the story should be practiced. This does not mean that it should be learned verbatim. Untrained narrators often make the mistake of memorizing paragraph by paragraph and sentence by sentence, and then giving the tale like a recitation, which is not story-telling at all. Story-telling is a constructive, creative art, and the tale that grips and convinces and inspires must be told in a manner that makes it seem like the teller’s own. Practicing the story means facing an imaginary audience and describing so vividly and clearly what is seen that others may see the pictures that pass before the mind’s eye.

Shall gesture and facial gymnastics be used? This depends entirely upon the temperament and personality of the narrator. If it is natural for him to gesticulate as he speaks, gesture will come spontaneously and will heighten the effect of the tale. But if movements of hand and head and body are not spontaneous, they will mar the rendition and scatter the interest of the listeners by dividing it between the teller and the tale. Story-telling then becomes touched with affectation and loses its artistry. It degrades the story-teller into a sort of acrobatic performer and makes him a personage upon whom the attention is centered, which is not as it should be. He is simply the medium through which the picture is made clear to the audience. He is not an actor, and should not occupy the center of the stage. As Dr. Partridge says: “The story-teller should pleasingly suggest the mood and scene of the story, then step into the background, turn down the lights on the present, and carry his hearers to a distant region, which he must make, for the time being, more real than the here and now.” This is why the story-teller is at his best away from the glare of electricity, among the shadows of a summer gloaming, or by the open hearth when the firelight is dim, because then his hearers do not see him or think of him, but only of the pictures and scenes painted by his voice and words.

Therefore let the guiding rule of the narrator be, “I must describe pictures so that others will see them, and think, not of me, but of the scenes to which I lead them.” And he must do it in his individual way. If gesture comes naturally, it belongs in the tale. If it is studied and artificial, it destroys the effect and value. Some of the greatest story-tellers of the past used no gesture, while others used body, head, and hands with wonderful effect. They were persons of strong individuality and did things in an individual way. Let the present-day story-teller profit by their example.

Change of voice in dialogue adds to clearness of pictures. Nothing is more colorless than a reading by one whose intonation is not in keeping with the part he interprets, and the story told in a monotone is boresome and valueless to the child. He associates tone and action and wants them to be true to each other. He is dissatisfied if the old witch speaks like a loving mother, while the heavy tones of the wicked giant, the gentle ones of the good fairy, and the mirthful, rippling notes of the joyous, beautiful maiden delight him and make him responsive to the tale. They transform the personages of the story into living, breathing creatures who walk in his presence and smile or frown in his face.

Pauses are wonderfully effective in heightening the interest in a story. Children fairly quiver with expectation if frequent pauses are used when the moments of suspense grow big. They creep nearer in their eagerness to hear about what happens next, fearing that they will miss a bit of the attractive thread. One small boy, asked why he took such delight in listening to a certain story-teller, said: “I don’t know if it’s the way she looks or the way she says it. She’ll be going along, telling about what happens, and all at once she’ll say, ‘And then——’ and stop a little bit until you think all kinds of things are going to happen.” This feeling is general with children, although they may not voice it, and behind the naïve words is a psychological truth. The pause heightens the dramatic effect and focuses the interest on the coming sentences.

Above all things, there should be no stopping in the midst of a tale to correct a child. If one shows evidence of lagging interest, mention his name as if the story were being told for him. “And, John, when little Red Riding Hood reached her grandmother’s house she knocked on the door.” This makes him feel that although many children are listening to the story, it is being given solely for his benefit. It touches his pride and grips his attention long enough to enable the narrator to muster all his forces and heighten the interest in the tale so that it will abound in suspense from that point. If it fails to do that, something is wrong, either with the selection or the presentation. Perhaps the pictures are not being made clear because they were not first clear in the mind of the teller. Perhaps the story is not an interesting one to that particular group of children. It is the narrator’s business to find the reason, just as artists in Europe must learn what is at fault when their hearers hiss. Audiences on the Continent are not so polite as those in America, and there is no mistaking their feeling about a performance. When sounds of disapproval sweep over the house, the performer must rise to heights that will compel admiration or face a ruined career. Likewise, when a small boy becomes troublesome, the story-teller should not pause to correct him, but should make the tale so thrillingly fascinating that the lad forgets to be naughty. Mothers seldom meet with this problem, but settlement workers are having to solve it constantly, and they do it successfully only by knowing what lies close to the child’s interests and telling stories that touch those interests.

There are those who denounce story-telling in the schoolroom because they happen to have known of poor story-telling and the disorderly conduct that often ensues when the children’s interest is not held. Not long ago I came across this statement in the report of a lecture delivered at a teachers’ institute:

“It is to be hoped that story-telling will soon be eliminated from the primary grades, and that the spectacle of a teacher pausing in the midst of a tale to grasp a child by the arm and exclaim, ‘Here, Johnny, straighten up and listen,’ will become past history.”

It certainly is to be hoped that such story-telling will be eliminated, but it is no more fair to condemn story-telling as an art or to deprecate its value as an educational or ethical factor because there is poor story-telling, than it is to decry painting and sculpture because there are bunglers with brushes and chisels. The remedy does not lie in abolishing it, but in elevating the standard of the workers to a higher plane and in demonstrating that story-telling syncopated by scoldings and admonitions is not story-telling at all.

When shall we tell stories? Whenever, in the opinion of the teacher, a story will do more effective work than something else. Do not depend wholly on regular periods. These have a place on every school, library, or settlement program, but the story period should not be the only time for telling stories, because often a tale told at the psychological moment will make a deeper and more lasting impression than those given during a dozen regular periods. When the children are tired, tell a story for rest and relaxation. If there has been a fight or swearing, follow up the incident as soon as possible with an apt narrative. It will do more good than moralizing. If the geography class is struggling over the map of Turkey and can see nothing but a series of dots and marks on a piece of paper, put aside the formal recitation for that day and tell them of the building of the Mosque of Ahmed the First on the Golden Horn, of the merry craftsmen who raised the dome of St. Sophia, and give them some idea of how this glorious waif of the Orient came to stand on European soil. Make story-telling fit occasions and conditions instead of trying to make conditions fit story-telling.

And above all, never moralize! As one authority says, “It is bad pedagogy and worse art.” Remember what Dr. van Dyke says: “If a story is worth telling, moralizing is not necessary.” It is not only unnecessary, but harmful. The child sees for himself that virtue is rewarded and evil-doing is punished. He resents not being given credit for having sufficient intelligence to understand it, and a personal application antagonizes him.

Tell the tale in a direct, unassuming manner—not as if you are talking down to a group of children, but as if you are one of the number, talking with them. Boys and girls dislike the patronizing story-teller as much as adults dislike the patronizing person, and are quick to detect affectation and insincerity. They will not receive the message a posing raconteur has to give, because his manner of delivering it irritates and estranges them. The successful story-teller must be like the poet, a joy bringer, and he can be that only when his work is marked by sincerity and genuineness as clear as brook water.

BOOKS ON STORY-TELLING

ALLISON, S. B., and PERDUE, H. A.: _The Story in Primary Education_.

BAILEY, CAROLYN SHERWIN: _For the Story-Teller_.

BRYANT, SARA CONE: _How to Tell Stories to Children_.

COE, FANNY E.: _First Book of Stories for the Story-Teller_; _Second Book of Stories for the Story-Teller_.

COWLES, JULIA D.: _The Art of Story-Telling_.

DYE, CHARITY: _The Story-Teller’s Art_.

FORBUSH, WILLIAM B.: _Story-Telling in the Home_.

KEYES, ANGELA M.: _Stories and Story-Telling_.

LINDSAY, MAUD: _The Story-Teller for Little Children_.

LYMAN, EDNA: _Story-Telling: What to Tell and How to Tell It_.

MCMURRY, CHARLES A.: _Special Method in Primary Reading and Oral Work, with Stories_.

PARTRIDGE, EMELYN N. and GEORGE E.: _Story-Telling in the Home and School_.

ST. JOHN, PORTER: _The Story in Moral and Religious Education_.

SHEDLOCK, MARIE L.: _The Art of the Story-Teller_.

WILTSE, SARA E.: _The Place of the Story in Early Education_.

WYCHE, RICHARD THOMAS: _Some Great Stories and How to Tell Them_.